Broken Wings and Cigarettes
by Jellyhair
Summary: Sherlock has been missing for two years. So when he is found in a cellar, tortured and raped, how will John help him recover? Can he get over the shock and guilt of seeing his seeing his friend so abused? And can Sherlock be fixed? Darkfic! NC-17
1. Alas, So Cold Outside and Within

**A/N - **Heloo! This is my first Sherlock story so be kind and do tell me if I'm a bit OOC with the characters. Enjoy!

**Disclaimers - **If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it now, would I?

**Warnings - **WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to.

**Positives - **Major Sherlock whumpage!

* * *

Lestrade peered through the January rain, his numb hand gripping the handle of the umbrella. He had been standing there for far too long, the toes on his feet had lost their feeling. He checked his watch and sighed. _'Bloody Americans,' _he thought moodily to himself, stamping his feet in some attempt to get the feeling back. He tried not to think of thought that was repeatedly cropping up in his mind. Two years. Two years since he had last seen that pale face. He had trained himself not toe think, not to look over and over again at the case file. It had taken along time but he had managed to do it.

Today was the day that Sherlock Holmes went missing. And he had never been seen since. He shuddered at the thought of him. He used to have a tendency of running off when least expected, many times without a word to any one. Sometimes he would be away for weeks, working on things that he wouldn't or couldn't even tell John about. But this time had two differences. The first one was he didn't pack, and the second one was he never came back.

To describe his relationship with Sherlock was near impossible. With complicated men came complicated relationships. To say they were friends was a bit of a stretch, but they weren't just work colleagues either. And he did care for him. To an extent, he did care for the young man. It was true he annoyed him, constantly took the piss out of him and his workers. But still couldn't help but care for him. Very few people could see past the cold, unfeeling mask that he always placed upon himself, but Lestrade could. He had seen him at his worst and at his best and he knew that he wasn't an emotionless sociopath as made people out to believe.

John knew this too.

Lestrade's heart still wrenched when he thought about the lost look in that man's face on the day that Sherlock went missing. He had known that there was something wrong that day. Lestrade had prayed and hoped that he had been wrong, but he wasn't. He was right and Sherlock was gone. The statistics told him that Sherlock was dead, but that thought he simply couldn't face. But if he wasn't dead, then where was he?

"Excuse me?" Lestrade jumped, sending the water on his umbrella flying everywhere. A young man was standing under his own blue umbrella, gazing at Lestrade with a sort of tame curiosity. His dark brown hair was sticking up in odd places on his head as if he had just woken up. "Are you Inspector Le..." He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, frowning. "...Straid?"

Lestrade smiled and offered a hand. "Lestrade." The other man blushed and gripped Lestrades extended hand.

"Sorry about that," He apologized bashfully, his American accent strong. "I'm Inspector Ellis."

"Nice to meet you. Do you wanna get out of this rain?" Ellis grinned.

"Yeah thanks," Lestrade hailed a taxi and they clambered in. They leant back into the seats, sighing. "I'm sorry it took so long, I had to wait for the plane for like 2 hours longer." Lestrade shrugged.

"Don't worry about it. How was your flight?"

"Yeah it was good. Slept through most of it," From his suitcase, he drew a case file. "I know that we're both tired, so why don't we just get down to business." Lestrade was pleasantly surprised by the brusque nature of his colleague.

"Might as well. It's not as if we're on a time schedule or anything." Ellis grinned and opened the case file. Seven pictures were in there of seven dead men. Both men's eyes had grown accustomed to the sight of such atrocities, though it didn't make it any easier.

"There's something bothering me about this case." Ellis muttered, shaking his head.

"You mean besides the seven dead bodies?" Ellis grinned.

"Yeah, besides that," He paused for a moment, frowning down at the case file in his hand. "What I don't get is why he started out here, went to New York and came back again. It just seems pointless."

"More publicity?" John suggested. "Though I suppose there are easier ways to gain publicity."

"Exactly so what could it be? And there's the other thing," Lestrade turned in interest to him. "These deaths are screaming "sexual sadist" but... There was minimal violence, no torture, no rape and yes they were naked but that's the extent of it," Ellis stared again down at the file. "Somethings missing."

"Maybe we haven't found all the bodies yet? No that wouldn't be it..." Lestrade mused to himself. Then he blanched. "Maybe he has another outlet." Ellis looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe he's trying to disguise the fact that he's a sexual sadist by taking out his rage on some one else. Maybe a boyfriend or... son..." The American stared at him, the same horror in his eyes.

"You mean this bastard's sick enough to rape his own son?"

"He may be. If the need is strong enough, he would do that."

"Christ," Ellis muttered to himself. "I really hope we find this son of a bitch"

_2 weeks later... _Peter Ellis walked down the dark corridor, his trained eyes searching for any doors or anybody in this god forsaken place. He didn't use his torch; stealth was key for this game for this game to be won in his favour. He was used to this, having done it so many times that it a second nature to him. The only thing that was worrying was that there was absolutely no signal in this old mansion, so it really was every man for himself. Walking slowly, he held his gun in a steady hand, his dark eyes looking about the gloom for any sign of life. His eyes fell upon something: a metal door.

Swallowing and trying to push the images of the dead men out of his mind, he opened the door cautiously. It was the door to a cellar. There weren't any lights, but he could make out steps. "Police, anyone here?" Ellis asked the room, his voice rebounding off the cold stone walls. He felt for a light switch, but found no such luck. He pulled out his torch and on seeing a flight of stairs, he quickly descended.

On reaching the bottom, he said "Anyone down here?" He turned the torch in his hand, flashing the light around the room and to his horror, saw a crumpled figure in the corner. With heightened trepidation and a daunting sense of dread in his stomach, he approached it. It was everything he had expected and worse.

A small, crumpled figure lay naked on the hard stone floor. The only was he was sure he wasn't dead was black curl that was continuously been blown back forth from his breath. He was skinny enough to be dead though. He was chained to the wall by his wrists and ankles. His whole body was painfully thin; bruises, burns scars and all other types of afflictions were painted on his pale skin. His face was hidden by a mass of black, overgrown curls. Tentatively, Ellis shook the man on the shoulder.

He jumped up as though he had been given an electric shock. He backed against the wall, his wide eyes staring frantically at Ellis. "It's alright. It's alright I'm not here to hurt you I promise. Slowly and discreetly, he placed his gun on the floor and raised his hands to show he wasn't going to hurt him. "It's ok. I'm with the police. I'm going to get you out of here." The man was still staring at him, as if he had never heard English before. What if he hadn't? Shit, he hadn't thought of that problem.

"Are you hurt?" Ellis asked.

The man continued to stare at him, but then he whimpered, "I-I w-w-wasn't sleep-ping."

Ellis was so thrown off by this comment, he wasn't sure how to respond. "...What?"

"I-I wasn't sleeping. I p-promise I w-wasn't. D-don't tell Sir. Y-y-you can't-t tell Sir, I-I'll... I'll get in so much trouble," Tears filled his eyes as he drew his thin legs to his chest. "Please d-don't tell Sir. I-I'm not allowed t-to be sleeping." Ellis put a hand gently on the young mans' shoulder, only to have flinched away from underneath him. Human contact normally meant abuse for this man.

"I'm not going to tell him anything. I'm going to get you out of here."

"O-out?" he frowned at the statement. Ellis realised how cold the man must be. He shrugged of his trench coat and put it careful on his small shoulders. It felt weird to have something covering him. He hadn't had clothes for so long, he had forgotten what it had felt like.

"W-who are y-you?" the man asked, regarding Ellis with fear.

"My name is Peter Ellis," he said quietly, smiling. The young man's eyes widened at this. It was weird. There wasn't any malice in the smile, no sick pleasure in his eyes. It almost looked... happy. But, in such a way that for once it didn't frighten him. Tentatively, as if he may disappear at his touch, he put a thin finger on his face.

"A-are... Are you r-real?"

He smiled again. "Yes, I'm real. Are you hurt?"

The young man wasn't sure how to answer the question. How could he define hurt?

"I-I don't know," he answered truthfully.

Ellis nodded, "What's your name."

It was as though he needed a moment to remember. "Sherlock H-Holmes," Ellis smiled again and offered a hand. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't focus on that right now.

"Nice to meet you Sherlock Holmes." Slowly, like Sherlock was being tricked, he took the inspector's hand and for the first time in two years, felt friendly human contact.


	2. Dear Friend, How Long Has It Been?

**A/N - **OMFG YOU GAVE 16 REVIEWS! FOR ONE FLIPPING CHAPTER! :O My nearly exploded! You are all so wonderful! Thank you all SO MUCH for waiting, I know how annoying it can be. Sorry it took so long, it won't take this long again.

**Faelan - **First off, lovin' the name! :O And scond of all, thank you for reviewing :)

**Storystuff - **Thank you for reviewing :D

**kg - **I know I'm evil for the cliffhanger and I do apologize. But here's the new chapter! :D Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimers - **If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it now, would I?

**Warnings - **WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to.

**Positives - **Major Sherlock whumpage!

* * *

Ellis checked his phone, then remembered that there was no signal, short range or otherwise. No ambulance then. He'd have to drive him to the hospital. "We need to get out of here," he muttered, more to himself than Sherlock. He turned to him. "Do you know where the keys are to your chains?" If possible, Sherlock blanched.

"Y-you can't u-undo the ch-chains! I-I-I'll get in trouble. S-Sir's g-g-gonna be s-so mad at me." He sounded like a scared child. Ellis placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm. He still flinched, but allowed it to stay there.

"Sherlock, Sir isn't going to be able to do anything to you anymore. You're going to get you out of here."

"'merica." he mumbled, looking at the floor.

"What?"

"You're A-American. Are you g-going to t-t-take me to America?"

"What? No, I'm going to take you home!"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and filled with tears at the same time. "H-home?"

"Yeah Sherlock. Home."

"J-John?" Ellis didn't know who John was or who he was to Sherlock but he was clearly important. So he nodded and smiled and said,

"Yeah, you're gonna see John again. Now, do you know were the keys are?" he shook his head and Ellis sighed.

"I'm s-sorry!" Sherlock yelped, crawling away from Ellis as fast as he could. "I'm s-sorry, d-d-don't hurt m-me, please!"

"Sherlock, I'm not going to hurt you!" The inspector tried desperately to calm the young man down. "It's alright, I'm not mad at you." Sherlock stared at him, clutching the large trench coat wrapped around his thin body.

"Y-you're not?"

"No, I'm not," he drew out a small bobby pin from within his pocket. "Thank god I carry this around with me all the time." He began to pick free the lock on Sherlock's ankles.

"H-he's gonna be a-angry," the young man mumbled, looking down. "He's g-gonna be r-really angry."

"Yeah well, I'm going to be here, so I'll be able to protect you. I'm not going to let him hurt you Sherlock. Yes!" He had managed to unpick the chain around one of his ankles. Sherlock gasped as the pressure of his foot was suddenly relieved. Ellis instantly started on the other one.

"I can't w-walk," he confessed sadly. "S-Sir broke m-my ankles." The American stopped and looked up at Sherlock.

"Why did he break your ankles?"

"'cause I-I was bad."

Ellis continued to pick and talk. "What did you do that was bad?"

"I... I fell a-asleep. Without h-his permission." '_Jesus Christ, he needs permission to fall asleep? What the fuck else has he been doing to this kid?' _The other chain fell with a clang to the floor. Gently, Ellis prised the hand clutching his coat off and began to undo that chain. Even his hand looked abused. There were burns burning painfully against his pale skin.

"Where's Sir now?"

"A-away. H-he does that s-sometimes. Sometimes h-he forgets and d-doesn't come b-back for a-a-ages."

"Do you know where he goes?" Sherlock shook his head, his black curls bouncing.

"N-not allowed t-to ask q-questions." The chain fell and Sherlock gasped. He had had the chains on for two years; too feel his wrists and ankles free... It didn't feel like anything else he had experienced. The curls were about his face as he looked to the floor.

"I'm g-gonna get i-in trouble." He whispered.

"No you won't. I'm not gonna let you get in trouble, ok Sherlock? You're not gonna get in trouble." He nodded, but he clearly didn't believe it. The last finally fell to the floor. Large purple bruises were left from where they used to be. "Sherlock," Ellis said carefully, looking straight at him. "Because you can't walk, I'm gonna have to pick you up, ok?" Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then nodded. He picked up his gun and put it back in it's holster. "You ready?" Sherlock nodded. But two years of nothing but this cellar, he wasn't sure how to be ready.

Sliding his hands and arms behind Sherlock's knees and around his shoulders, slowly and careful, Ellis picked Sherlock up. He wrapped Ellis' coat around him and instinctively put his arm around the inspector's neck. The ground seemed dangerously far away and Sherlock felt a great wave of vulnrability wash over him. What if Ellis was lying? What if he wasn't here to rescue him? What if he dropped him and stone floor and he shattered into a million pieces. This thought, combined with everything else that had happened in the last fifteen minutes, Sherlock burst into tears.

Ellis had comforted victims before, but this felt different. It felt more like when one of his children had had a nightmare or had fallen over. Sherlock was light enough to be one of his children. The way he talked was almost childish as well. What had happened to this man? He had to calm him down in case he went into shock, but he needed to get out of there before his captor came back. He rubbed Sherlock's arm comfortingly and said kindly, "It's ok Sherlock, it's ok. I know this is alot to take in, but it's gonna be ok."

"P-please don't d-d-drop me," Sherlock sobbed, the words causing Ellis' stomach to drop and his heart to clench. "P-please, I-I'm s-sorry."

"I'm not gonna drop you Sherlock, it's ok. I'm gonna walk up stairs now, ok?" He nodded, unable to talk through his violent tears. He managed to lead Sherlock's head to his shoulder and slowly began to walk up the stairs, the sobbing man shaking convousivly in his arms. Continuing to mutter comforting words, the inspector managed to make his way up the stairs. He was terrified of falling down the stairs, not for himself, but for the young man he was holding, knowing it would shatter the small amount of trust they had managed to build up. This fragile, he was terrified of breaking him.

They managed to reach the top of the stairs without incident and Ellis looked about the corridor, ready to see some mad man jump out at them at any second. But thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. his crying was now muffled by Ellis' shoulder, but it was still clearly heard in the lonely corridor. Ellis carried him as quickly and quietly as he could, trying to get out of that place as quickly as he could.

He couldn't tell the others what he had found and to find all of them in this old mansion would take forever. Even if he dared, he couldn't shout for them in case 'Sir' came back. Swiftly, he walked out into the courtyard. _'Perfect place to keep him,' _Ellis thought moodily to himself, _'We're miles away from anywhere!' _There wasn't anything he could do about it though. Feet crunching on the gravel, he unlocked the car and opened the door. But before he could put him inside, he heard someones feet on the gravel. He froze and Sherlock looked at him, confused.

"Ellis? You going yet?" Ellis breatheda sigh of relief and turned around to see Lestrade walking up to him. He stopped. He stared at the man in his arms, who was hiding his face in the inspector's shoulder lest something bad were to happen. He knew those curls...

"Sherlock?" He took a step closer. the man froze. He knew that voice. Where had he heard that voice before? Slowly, he took his head off the inspector's shoulder and stared at Lestrade with wide eyes.

"...Lestrade?" Ellis' eyes widened.

"You two know each other?" he asked, incredulously.

"We used to work together," Lestrade whispered, his voice hoarse. "I thought... I thought you were dead."

"S-sorry," Sherlock said quietly. Lestrade couldn't believe this. He never thought, not in a hundred thousand years would Sherlock ever apologize. He took in how skinny he was, how bruised his skin was and his stomach seemed to drop a thousand feet.

"You were the outlet," he spoke, more to himself than anyone else. "You were the outlet."

"What?" the young man frowned, confused.

Lestrade shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Ellis I can take him to the hospital, you round up the rest of them."

Ellis nodded and warned. "Don't put his feet on the ground. Both of his ankles are broken." Lestrade blanched but nodded and held out his arms so as to take Sherlock off Ellis. Carefully as he could, Ellis gave Lestrade to Sherlock. The consulting detective felt like he couldn't breathe. It was the first face he had seen from his past life for two years. He couldn't stop staring at Lestrades' face, as if it was going to fade away he didn't stare at it. With shaking hands, Lestrade clutched the young man. Ellis handed him the keys and patted Sherlocks' hand comfortingly and walked off to the old house.

Swallowing, Lestrade looked down Sherlock. Since when had he shrunk? He was too thin, to pale, too scared. This wasn't the calculating, sociopathic Sherlock he had once known. This was an abused, terrified Sherlock, a Sherlock that had been lost for far too long. His big eyes watched Lestrades' face, for any reaction. Hoping to comfort him in some way, Lestrade managed to smile and said shakilly, "Hey Sherlock."

For the first time in two years, Sherlock managed to smile, "H-hey Lestrade." Lestrade carried Sherlock to the car and carefully placed him on the front passenger seat. Shutting the door, he went round to the other side of the car and got in the drivers seat. It was only then that Lestrade realised that Sherlock was naked. He was clutching Ellis' coat that was three times bigger than himself around him for warmth, and to cover his naked, bruised body.

Lestrade took in all the injuries as beat he could. There were so many. It almost didn't look like Sherlock. He cowered away as Lestrade stared at him. He didn't like how his eyes were flitting up and down his body. The older man realised this as those big, doeful eyes were on him once more. "Sorry. I was just checking whether you were hurt, that's all," He quickly consoled, realising he had freaked him out.

He nodded. "I'm gonna start the car now. You'll need to put your seatbelt on." Sherlock frowned. Then Lestrade realised. He hadn't been in a car for two years. Christ, he hadn't been out of that house for two years! It was going to take a long time to get used to civilised life again. He reached over Sherlock and pulled the seatbelt, strapping it over Sherlock.

He didn't realise how bad an idea this was. As soon as Sherlock was bound by the seat belt, his brilliant tortured mind put two and two together: He was being tied down, and therefore he was being punished. "I'm sorry! Oh god, I-I'm s-s-sorry. P-please don't Lestrade, p-please!" To hear this such an amazing man beg not to be punished, was one of the most disturbing things Lestrade had heard in all his career.

He froze for a moment, before breaking out of his revere and unbuckling Sherlock. Tears were spilling down his pale, bruised cheeks as he looked, with frightened eyes to the man he thought was his saviour. "Sherlock... I'm not punishing you. I didn't mean to scare you and I'm sorry. But you're not in trouble, I promise you." Sherlock was still staring at him with distrust and fear. "The seat belt's to stop you from having a car crash... Remember?" He blinked, then remembered what a seatbelt was for.

It suddenly occured to him how stupid he had been. Lestrade wouldn't hurt him! Lestrade was good, Lestrade was safe. He wouldn't hurt him. With one hand still clutching the coat, he used the other to slowly give his to Lestrade's in strange form of apology. Lestrade smiled, ignoring how odd it was and took his hand with in both of his. Even his hand felt small within his own.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should've realised it would scare you."

But the consulting detective shook his head, "N-no, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... r-reacted that way."

"After all the you've been through, you have _nothing _to apologize for. Alright?" Sherlock nodded and Lestrade started the engine. He jumped at the loud noise, but managed to lean back into his seat, ignoring the pain from the welts in his back. He looked behind him and a tear slid down his face and then he knew that he was leaving. He was finally going home.


	3. At Last, I Am Found

**A/N - **39 FLIPPING REVIEWS! I am so grateful, really, I truly am! Right, 'cause this chapter is so _pathetically_ short, I'm posting two chapters to make up for it because this is truly shocking. I mean really, I usually write SO much more than this! You're soon going to learn that I'm a bit of an evil bitch... But don't worry! I'll make up for it, promise! I hope you enjoy! Oh and have a merry Christmas! To all the reviewers who don't have an account, I'm sorry it took so long to reply to you all.

**TheGullibleOne - **Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying my story. I hope you like ths chapter :)

**goldeneyedbeatle **- The Beatles! Woo hoo! :D Sorry, I'm in a bit of a Beatle phase right now. But still loving Sherlock :) Glad you're enjoying my story :)

**sr - **Thanks for reviewing! Yes it will be a long road to recovory. Poor Sherlock :(

**T - **Your wish may becoming true... :O

**Faelan - **Thank you for mentioning the Lestrade bit! I hope you like this new chapter :)

**Storystuff - **I'm glad you like Ellis! I didn't want a scumbag saving Sherlock. Sorry it took so long! Hope you like this new chapter :)

**kg - **I know I'm evil for the cliffhanger and I do apologize. But here's the new chapter! :D Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimers - **If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it now, would I?

**Warnings - **WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to. If you're a bit twisted like me, don't worry. There'll be some scary shit happening in later chapters.

**Positives - **Major Sherlock whumpage! JOOOOOOHN WAAAAAATSOOON! FINALLY!

* * *

Lestrade sat in the waiting room, a phone to his ear, waiting for the phone to pick up. He had been there for half an hour now. The looks on the nurses' faces when he staggered in with Sherlock in his arms were almost comical. They were so surprised they just gawped at them for a few minutes before regaining their composures. He now sat, a coffee in one shaking hand and his mobile in the other. He was trying and failing to reach John. They had lost contact about a year ago, when the leads turned up nothing. It was lucky he still had John's number on his phone, but he was worried that John may have changed it. Still, it wasn't stopping him from trying.

A doctor walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr Lestrade?" He isntantly hung up and rose to his feet. "Are you here for Sherlock Holmes?" He nodded. "I'm Doctor Tennant.

"How is he?"

"Considering all that he's been through, he's handling it surprisingly well. Thankfully he hasn't gone into shock but a nurse is with him as we speak. We can't take the risk of falling into shock," Lestrade nodded again. "His injuries... They're some of the worst I've seen in a long time. How long has he been missing?"

Lestrade swallowed. "Two years." He choked out.

The doctor nodded. "Both ankles are broken, two fingers has been recently dislocated and relocated, 3 broken ribs, multiple bruises and scars, some I'f say were about two years old, deep welts on his back and multiple burns and generally under these circumstances rape occurs. We've taken the test and the results should be back in a minute or so."

Lestrade nodded dumbly. Deep inside him, he knew that Sherlock had been raped. He jumped as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He flipped it open, "Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"Oh thank god John!" Lestrade blew a sigh of relief.

"...Lestrade?"

"Yeah, it's me! Look you need to come to St Jude's hospital."

"What? Why?"

Lestrade took a breath. "We found him John. We found Sherlock."

-...-

John couldn't breathe. He felt like his chest would burst. His was spinning. They'd found Sherlock? After two years without him, he was finally going to his friend, screw that, _best _friend back. John hadn't heard the rest of the conversation, just rasped that he would get there as quick as he could. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears as he watched the traffic speed by.

He felt like he was in some sort of dream, like this wasn't really happening. God knows he'd had dreams about this moment before, but now it was real. It was happening. It was really happening. The cab stopped infront of the hospital and John threw his money at the taxi driver and stumbled out of the car. He staggered into the waiting room, accidently slamming against the receptions' desk. "Sh-Sherlock Holmes?" John could barely get his words out.

Before the receptionist could answer, John heard Lestrade call, "John!" He turned around as saw the inspector stood up.

He walked trembling towards him, the words tumbling out of his mouth, "How'?"

"John, slow down! Before you can see Sherlock, I have to tell you something," John didn't really have the patience for a chat, but just about managed to comply to sit where Lestrade gestured. "When we found... Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed. "Any think there's any way I can say this with out it hurting, so I'm just going to tell you. For the last two years Sherlock has been held captive in a cellar. He's been tortured and..." He choked out the next word, "raped."

John stared at him. "What?" he rasped.

"He's not in shock, which is a good thing. He hasn't asked for anything, but apparently his captor forbid questions. But when I mentioned you, he said he wanted to see you."

"Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him."

When they reached his room, Lestrade left as to give them some privacy while what he knew would be a tender moment. John took a deep breath. He wasn't prepared for this. His thoughts reeled at what Lestrade had told him. What was Sherlock like now? What shell of him had been left behind? There was only one way to find out.

Opening his eyes, he stepped through the curtain. His heart froze. The first thing he noticed were the bruises; the scars, the burns, the sign of his horrific torture. Then, how small he was and how fragile he looked, all bandaged up and lying tucked up in a hospital bed. It took him a while to realise that this little, broken figure was Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective.

He tried to stay something, but all he managed to make was strange sort of gargling noise. Sherlock's head snapped up and his jaw dropped. Neither could speak, merely stare at each other. It had been too long. Far too long for both of them.

"Sherlock," John rasped. He was unsure of what else to say. "It's... It's really you," It sounded like such a stupid thing to say, but he felt like he needed to say the words to help process it. His chest was still unbareably tight and he wondered whether Shelock's was the same, whether he was feeling the same sort of shock he was.

Then, Sherlock smiled. It was small and he had tears in his eyes, but it was still a smile. _His _smile.

"I... I knew h-he lied," Sherlock whispered defiantly. "Sir said he k-killed you, but I knew he w-was had t-to be," he looked at John and smiled sadly, tears sliding down his face. "Y-you were the only thing that k-kept me going," John couldn't handle seeing his friend like this. The Sherlock he knew would never cry and if he did, no one would know about it. The urge for human contact with his astranged friend was too strong.

Before he knew what he what he was doing, he was holding Sherlock in his arms and tears were streaming down his face. And Sherlock was crying into his chest. Huge tears soaked his shirt as he gasped for breath, taking in Johns' familliar scent.

"I couldn't-" he sobbed, "I-I couldn't f-f-fight him a-any more, I h-had to... Had t-to..." But he couldn't speak anymore. John shifted into a position so that Sherlock's whole upper body was leaning against him. John's tears were silent and shuddering as he held his best friend in his arms. He tightened his grip around his shaking body and pressed his face into his hair, tears getting lost in the forest of black curls. Sherlock's thin arms wrapped themselves around John's chest, his fingers gripping his jacket tightly, ignoring the pain that it brought.

"I know," he said, his words muffled by his hair. "I know you couldn't fight anymore Sherlock, it's ok. It's alright. You don't have to fight now," They sat there, crying into eachother until there were no more tears to shed. John managed to stop first, forcing himself to take deep, shuddering breaths.

But Sherlock continued. He howled into John's chest for all he was worth. His throat was dry and his head was pounding, yet still he couldn't stop the gut wrenching sobs that were shaking his frail body. He cried to the point that his cheeks were flushed and dry and he began to lose air.

Before he knew what was happening, he had his head between his legs and John's steady hand was on the nape of his neck. "Take deep breaths Sherlock..." he heard, as if from a distance, his calming voice instructing him what to day. Blackness was creeping on the edge of his vision and he tried to do what he was told.

_"Sir, please! Please, I can't breathe! Stop!" The scalding water burned the tender skin on his face as he was thrust head first into the boiling water again. He tried not to scream underwater, the scorching water entering his mouth. His head was yanked upwards again and he was screaming. His skin was red and scolded, his throat felt like it was blistering._

_"Not yet, Sherlock."_

_"Sir, PLEASE!"_

_SPLASH!_

Sherlock! Sherlock, keep breathing! Sherlock!" The consulting detective gasped and his head snapped upwards, his eyes wide. He stared at John, still breathing heavilly. John was frowning, his face filled with worry and fear. "Sherlock? Are you alright?" Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, the shock of seeing _him _strongly evident on his face, then he merely shook his head, the words lost from him.

"Do you need the doctor?"

"No thanks." He murmered. His head was now bent and he wasn't looking at John anymore, merely at his trembling fingers. John slid his hand into Sherlock's and squeazed gently. The consulting detective looked up and John smiled sadly.

"C-can we go home now?" Sherlock whispered.

"Soon Sherlock. Very soon." John took him in his arms once more and they stayed there for a long time, holding each other and trying to brace themselves against the storm.


	4. You Are Here, So All Is Safe

____

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**A/N - **As I promised, the second chapter! I do hope you enjoy as much as the other one. It's longer (thank god!) so yeah! Have fun!

**Disclaimers - **

If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it now, would I?

**Warnings - **

Positives -

Major Sherlock whumpage!

* * *

The key and lock were both old and rusty, small pieces of orange metal falling to the ground in flakes. The door was stiff and the lock stubborn. It made a horrible grating noise as the key was turned in the hole. He didn't care though. The last killing had been tough, the boy refused to shut up, always fighting him off. He put a stop to that though.

The door creaked loudly and the man smiled, the thought of his pet scurrying around inside at the sound of the door, trying prepare himself for whatever would come next. He stepped silently inside, hearing a few rats' claws scrape at the stone cold floor around. But no other sound.

This was not going to be a pleasant reunion like the one he had planned. He must have fallen asleep. His little bitch only fell asleep next to him or with his permission. Never without his say so. Already feeling the anger bubble up inside him, he felt the wall next to him and found a light switch. He flicked it.

The cellar was empty. His gaw dropped. Besides from the few rats trying to escape the light, there was nothing. No Sherlock. Rage burnt his chest. He spun around the room, as if somehow he had managed to hide from him. But he wouldn't dare any way. He couldn't. He had broken him a long time ago. He didn't have the will power or strength to get out of here on his own.

'But he's gone,' A snide little voice in his head said, 'The worlds only consulting detective. You knew you couldn't have him all to your self. He's probably with John right now...' At this though, the man roared in fury and his larg fist slammed into the stone wall. The door cracked as he slammed it, the place where he had his the wall now had a huge fist shaped dent in it.

-...-

"They want to do what?" Sherlock looked up at John, frowning. The blue eyes were filled with confusion as he stared right into the ex-soldiers'. The doctor had told John only half an hour after their reunion that photos of Sherlock's injuries would be needed as evidence. They needed to take it now before they began the healing process. The doctor thought it would be best for John tell Sherlock, given their friendship with one another. Didn't make it any easier though. The lost look on his friends face was enough to kill him.

John sighed, "They need it for evidence Sherlock. I'll be there if you need me to be."

"But... They're going to have to see me naked?" his stomach clenched as he saw the consulting detective's cheeks blush with humiliation at the thought of it.

"...Yes."

Sherlock paused before mumbling, "I-I can't," John sighed again and sat down on the bed. Sherlock was looking away from him now, down at his pale hands. His cheeks were tinted with shame and he sniffed. "I'm sorry J-John, I just can't."

"I can't imagine what this is like for you Sherlock, but I know this must be hard. I promise I will be there with you the whole time."

"No one's allowed."

John frowned at the odd comment, "What?"

He turned his head to the window, gulping. "N-no one else is a-allowed to see me naked," John closed his eyes. The words were just a small insight in to what sort of hell he had been living in for the last two years. No one else. Only 'Sir' was allowed to see him at his most vulnerable. Anger filled John so rapidly he found it hard to contain it. But he had to. Lestrade had explained to him how easily scared Sherlock could get if he thought you were angry at him. He opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock was watching him. As soon as there eyes met, he looked down again.

"Sherlock... This is scary. Actually, this is terrifying for you and I know it is but he doesn't control you anymore. You're away from him now, you don't have to follow his rules."

Sherlock shook his head, "No, no h-he's always going to be there, always. I'm g-gonna get in trouble," he looked up and his eyes were filled with tears. "He's gonna punish me again," his voice was breaking. It was as if you could hear the tears in his voice as well as seeing them in his eyes. "I don't w-wanna get punished, John. He's gonna be so angry."

John took both of Sherlock's hands and looked into the tear filled orbs. "Sherlock. You are strong. I know you don't feel it right now, but you are. You are one, no the cleverest man I have ever known and it is going to be so hard. But I'll help you. We'll get through this, I promise." He blinked back the tears as he looked at John.

"I... I'm not gonna get in trouble?"

"None at all. I promise," Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, the gripped John's hands tightly.

"You have to be there."

John nodded, "I will be."

"The whole time?"

"The whole time."

Sherlock thought for a moment, the panic ridden ideas running as fast as they could through his head. "Ok," he whispered.

He smiled and squeazed his hands. "Thank you, Sherlock," he nodded mutely, but continued to grip his hands tightly.

-...-

Sherlock was trembling. He didn't like the idea of some leering at his naked body and taking photographs, but then again, who did? But still, he had to. For John at least. He was in bed, waiting for the inevitable to come. John was next to him, holding his looked at John and he smiled at him. "Has he texted back yet?" The smile fell and he squeezed his hand.

"Not yet, Sherlock. But Mycroft will reply," he nodded in response and looked down at his lap. He was yearning to see his brother. He was desperate to see his family, but they just couldn't get a hold of them. Lestrade was working on getting them, but if his family didn't want to be found, then no one would find them.

"I wish they didn't have to take so long," he murmured. He wasn't sure which was worse: Waiting or getting it done.

"He'll be here soon," Sherlocks' stomach dropped a few feet at these words. "Are you alright?"

He turned to John and choked, "Yeah." The ex-solider squeezed his hand. "Erm John?"

"Hm?"

"Will I have to stand up?" John looked at him, "'cause you know... I-I can't... A-and he may w-want me to..." He could sense his fear. He was scared of the photographer being angry at him before he had even arrived. What had happened to him in the last two years?

"I'm sure he knows. We'll figure something, it'll be fine," he smiled and Sherlock offered him a small one of his own. He was trying to be brave. When he cried when Sir was angry, it just seemed to make him more mad. Though how someone couldn't cry whilst they're stomach was being kicked in a mystery. His moods were always changing. Some days he'd scream at him to cry and beg, but other days if he did cry and beg, it would just make him angrier. He could never win. Sherlock was never allowed to win.

A man in his early forties walked into the room with a camera and Sherlock felt as though he was going to pass out. He gripped John's hand so tight, his knuckles were white and his nails dug into his friends palm. "Sherlock Holmes?" the man with the camera asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn't find them in the hectic sea of his fear.

"Yes, it's him," John supplied the words for him, seeing as he didn't have any of his own.

The man nodded, "I heard that you can't stand up?" he directed the question at the young man in the bed. His voice was quiet and gentle, as though he had spoken to victims tens of times before, and probably had done as well.

"S-sorry," Sherlock looked down at his hands, but the photographer waved away his apology.

"Quite alright, quite alright. You'll just have to stay in bed, but that's fine," he paused for a second, before drawing the curtains around the bed. "Will he be with us?" he asked, nodding towards John. Sherlock nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. "Can you take off your gown now, please?" Sherlock couldn't. He knew he had to and he knew he would get in trouble if he didn't. He felt sick and dizzy and he couldn't let go of John's hand.

"Sherlock?" John's gentle voice managed to break him out of his reverie. "It's alright. We can take as much time as you want, ok?"

"I don't w-want to get in t-trouble," he whimpered, staring at John desperately for help.

"You won't get in trouble, Sherlock. You're not going to get in trouble," his voice was quiet and steady, and he was looking straight at the consulting detective. Somehow, he forced himself to pry his hand of Johns'. He choked down a sob as he began to pull down his gown.

He couldn't pull it off, so John untied the bow holding it together at the back. The gown fell off and it was all John could do to stop the cry of horror coming from his mouth.

There were so many wounds. Oh god, so, so many. His back had whip marks on them, some old and twelve just healing from recent afflictions. A chain had been around his neck at some point and he could see the large purple bruising from the collar. There boot marks, scars, whip marks, belt marks, bruises upon bruises all littered on his chest. Again, some old, some new. There were burns, all over his pale skin. They burned against the whiteness, making them seem even more painful. He had been cut so many times, mainly small incisions running up and down his arms; the long wounds were on his chest. Electric burns were on his nipples and they were just visible on his armpits.

The inflictions clouded over with John's tears. Never in his life had he seen such torture. He held Sherlock's hand tightly within his own, not just to comfort him, to comfort himself as well. Sherlock wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the ground and the camera began to flash.

Then, he was told he needed to show the lower half of his body. Tears were running down his cheeks at this stage. Slowly, he pulled back the covers. John nearly cried. He had cut the inside of his thigh, slashed it over and over. Sherlock couldn't look at himself. Knowing he wouldn't be in the photos, John sat next to Sherlock on the bed, and wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders.

The consulting detective leant into his friends chest, silently crying while the man did his job. He was the asked to turn around, so his back could be shown. He did as he was told, not daring to disobey. His body was shaking violently. He closed his eyes against the flashes, waiting for it all to end. He just wanted it to stop.

At least he wasn't asked to pose this time. Sir had taken many photos for his 'collection'. Hundreds had been taken. Too many. The flashes of white light had hurt his eyes. But he couldn't ask Sir to stop. Whatever Sir wanted from him, Sir would get.

"Sherlock? We're done now," Sherlock released the breath he didn't realise he was holding. John's steady hands helped him put on his gown. Sherlocks' were trembling too much to hold it steady. He couldn't look at John, just kept staring at the far wall, avoiding his gaze. "Thank you, Sherlock," the photographer said with a small smile. He nodded in response, still unable to make eye contact. He nodded at John and left the room.

Sherlock leant back into the pillows, folding his arms protectively across his chest. Stinging tears were brimming in his eyes. He couldn't look at John. He had seen the look on his face when he had seen his body. Sherlock knew what had gone on through his friends head. _'You worthless piece of shit! Do you really think anyone would ever WANT you? I only took you in out of pity! Your brother Mycroft never wanted you and never will! John... Well... And John knows what you are. Just a filthy, worthless whore!' Tears were now spilling from his eyes and he jumped as John sat down next to him._

"You did really well you know, Sherlock," the ex-soldier said quietly. "There aren't a lot of people who could go through what you did today."

"Y-you can stop pret-tending John, it's alright," Sherlock whispered.

"Pretending?"

"I know y-you think I'm... wrong. It's ok I get it,"

Johns jaw dropped. He couldn't believe he was hearing these words. How could Sherlock ever think that he would think there was something 'wrong' with him. "What?"

"Y-you think I'm worthless... And you're right,"

"And who told you this,"

"S-Sir," Sherlock whispered. Johns' blood boiled in his veins. What other lies had the bastard spun around his friends brilliant mind? But what made his heart pump ice was that Sherlock believed every word of it; he genuinely believed that his best friend that his best friend hated him. To Sherlock's surprise, he found himself being pulled into a tight hug.

"I could never think that you're worthless, alright?" John's muffled voice told him in his ear. "You are amazing Sherlock. I don't care what that piece of scum has told you all this time, you're brilliant, ok?" he nodded, unsure of how to react to such kind words. He hadn't been told that he was brilliant for years. He returned the hug and smiled into John's shoulder.

Until the time he had been kidnapped, he had never really been that big on hugs. He didn't come from a hugging family. But a few months in, he had become desperate for any type of friendly human contact. Sherlock clung onto John tighter, scared that the embrace would end. He nestled his head further into John's shoulder. It was surprising how comfortable a person could be. The ex-soldier was by far one of the most comfortable things he had ever snuggled against. His eyes were drooping. Blackness was creeping in at the corners of his eyes...

__

'When did I say you could fall asleep, Sherlock?'

He jumped back from John with a yelp as though he had been given an electric shock. "Sherlock?" John asked frowning.

"Can't sleep," Sherlock muttered, crawling back under the covers and hugging his legs to his chest, avoiding eye contact again. "Can't sleep, not allowed, not allowed..." he murmured this mantra over and over like some kind of chant. John sighed. It felt like any every time he got anywhere with Sherlock, they just went back to the beginning again. He smiled sadly and ran a hand through Sherlock's black curls. 'Oh Sherlock,' he thought to himself mournfully, 'How am I going to fix you?' this thought was knocked from his mind when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Sherlock's muttering stopped and he stared at the phone lit up in John's pocket. "I'm just going outside Sherlock, I need to take this call. Will you be alright?" Sherlock nodded. He didn't want John to leave, but he didn't want to annoy him either. He pulled out his phone and answered it, walking out of the room and leaving Sherlock alone.

"Hello?"

"John, what are you doing calling me?" he breathed a sigh of relief. Mycroft's bored voice drawled through the phone.

"Mycroft, they've found him."

"Found who... Wait. They've found Sherlock?" John grinned.

"Yeah. He's alive. He's at st Judes hospital,"

There was a moments silence, before Mycroft said "I'll be there in three hours and twenty four minutes. Is he alright?"

John swallowed, unsure how to answer the question, "Erm... It's difficult to say..."

"John. Is my little brother alright?" the words were snarled with such a ferocity that it didn't sound like Mycroft.

"No, he isn't."

"Right." abruptly, he hung up.

As soon as John had left, a nurse had bustled into the room. Sherlock stared at her reproachfully, as she was a large woman and looked dangerous in his opinion. She fiddled about with the tubes in his arms and his pillows. He couldn't stop staring at her, like he hadn't seen a woman for two years. Oh wait. He hadn't. She glanced at him and he instantly looked down.

She sighed irritably, "You need to get some sleep Mr Holmes," she told him firmly. Sherlock's heart fell a thousand feet.

He gawped at her, "W-wha'?"

"You need sleep," she repeated angrily. She was frustrated and she didn't know that the patient she was snapping at had been tortured for years. She should have, but she didn't. She just thought that it was Sherlock being impertinent. The fear of getting in trouble by disobeying orders and the knowlege that Sir would punish him if he went to sleep without his permission were tearing the young man in two.

"I-I can't," he tried to explain to her, his blue eyes imploring her to understand his problem. But she wasn't understanding. She glared at him as if he had done her a personal wrong and he quailed under her glare.

"What do you mean you 'can't'?" he felt as though his heart was going hammer right through his ribs. His breathing quickened and his blue eyes were round and wide.

"I-I'm sorry. I'm not allowed."

John sighed at the phone and he put it away. How was Mycrotft going to deal with seeing his little brother in the state he was in? How was he going to deal with Sherlock? He hadn't really thought about that. But he didn't have time think about his feelings. A cry of terror from Sherlock's gave him a terrifying jolt. "Oh shit," he whispered and he ran into the room. A large woman who called herself a nurse was leering dangerously of Sherlock, who was cowering in bed.

"What the hell did you do to him?" he roared at her. She looked up at him, taken aback, but she soon regained her haughty composure.

"He's refusing sleep."

"John, t-tell her. I can't sleep, I-I'm not allowed, I'm n-not allowed," John turned to her, fire in his eyes.

"What did you do to him," he snarled at her dangerously.

"I told him he needs to sleep. He ought to stop whining too." John stared at her incredulously.

"Whining? You think he's whining?" his voice was low and dangerous. He took a step closer to her, "Do you know what he's been through the past two years? He's been locked up in some godforsaken cellar and tortured and raped!" he was shouting at her now, the anguish of knowing what happened to his dearest friend seeping into his voice. "He can't sleep because if he doesn't ask permission off his captor, then he'll be tortured!" he took a step closer, "So don't you dare tell me that he's 'whining'. Now get out." Looking at the floor, she hurried out of the room. Suddenly, an immense feeling of exhaustion washed over him and John closed his eyes and sighed. He hadn't meant to exploed like that, especailly not infront of Sherlock. But what that bitch had said about Sherlock could not be let past.

He opened his eyes and found a very scared Sherlock Holmes staring at him. Tears were rolling down his face again, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Are you ok?" he whispered.

John sighed, "Yeah. Just tired, that's all."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmered, looking down at his hands. John frowned and walked over to the bed, sitting down on it.

"What for?"

"'Cause I can't sleep and that made you angry."

"What? I wasn't angry because of that!" John said incredulously, "Sherlock, I was angry because that hag who calls herself a nurse was trying to make you sleep and saying you were whining when you weren't. I wasn't angry at you Sherlock."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, looking up. God, when would those eyes finally be tear free?

"Really," John said kindly, smiling.

Sherlock's lip trembled. "John," he whimpered, "I... I'm tired. I'm... so... tired..." Tears rolled down his cheeks as he closed his eyes. "I just wanna sleep," he choked. John pulled back the covers and sat down next to Sherlock and put an arm around his shaking shoulders. His eyes were red and sore from constant crying. He curled up on his side and rested his head on the ex soldiers chest. He wrapped his thin arms around him and closed his eyes. "I'm not allowed," he whispered, more to himself than John.

"You are, Sherlock. You're allowed to sleep, it's ok. I won't let him hurt you," Sherlock looked up at him.

"If y-you try and stop him, h-he'll hurt you too," the thought Sir hurting John broke Sherlock's heart in two.

John smiled, "No, he won't. I won't let him. I promise you I will never let him hurt you again." Sherlock blinked then buried his head back into John's chest again. John kissed Sherlocks curls and whispered, "It's ok Sherlock. You can sleep now."

It took a long time. Such a long time. So many tears had rolled down Sherlocks cheeks and onto John's shirt. He was terrified of Sir bursting into the room and punishing him for sleeping without his permission. But john told him over and over that he was there and he wouldn't let Sir hurt him. Of course the words barely penetrated two whole years of abuse, but they helped. There was no denying that. It took an hour for Sherlock to fall asleep. By that time he was truly exhausted.

Held in the safe arms of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes finally fell asleep. And a few minutes later, John Watson did too.


	5. My Dear Arch Enemy

John wasn't sure how long they fell asleep for. His eyes felt as if someone had glued them together with tar. At first he didn't know where he was, or indeed why he was sharing a bed with someone. It was far too thin and skeletal to be Sarah. Whoever it was, he could feel his heart hammer against his chest. Finally, he managed to open his eyes. He looked down at Sherlock and the events of what had happened in the last two hours or so came rushing back to him. It felt like someone had smacked him across the face when he remembered the wounds spread over Sherlock's body; the whip marks, the burns, the terrible knife scars.

Sherlock whimpered in his sleep and John ran a hand through his curls. Oh god, he had forgotten. Nightmares. Sherlock would have so many nightmares when he got him home. And the powerful flashbacks that would hit him out of nowhere. He was going to take a long time to heal, and whether he could do it fully... Well, John didn't know whether he could do it fully.

It was nice to see Sherlock peaceful though. He hadn't seen him peaceful in so long. John knew there weren't going to be a lot of moments like this in the near future. A pang of sadness shot through his chest when this thought struck him. One thing was for sure, he wasn't going to get his old Sherlock back. That cold, calculating, brilliant Sherlock had been broken long ago. And he was never coming back.

If Sherlock, the old Sherlock had been hurt under any other circumstances, he would have been embarrassed and humiliated to show any signs of weakness or emotion. But it was as if it had been beaten out of him. Caring about letting others see his weaknesses no longer mattered to him.

John realised there and then that if he was going to help his friend, he was just going to have to accept him for who he had become and not mourn who he once was.

He checked his phone for the time, flipping it over and fondly looking at the back, fingers tracing over the scratches on the side. It was odd that something that should remind him of sadness did the exact opposite. Now, instead of his sisters alcholic tendencies, all he ever though of when he saw those scratches was Sherlock's deductions, the brief grins shared in that cab and the pure astonishment of how Sherlock came to such deep knowledge so quickly and deftly.

It was evident to John that Sherlock was, for which he was eternally thankful, too tired for nightmares. And John was more than happy to while away the hours, doing nothing other than being in the presence of his lost friend. A rather delayed realisation told him that Mycroft wouldn't be too far away now. John wasn't altogether too sure how long Mycroft could stay, but with such important work he had, he probably wouldn't be able to keep away from his full schedule for too long. He looked down at Sherlock with a sigh. He really didn't want to wake him up, not when he had a chance to finally get some well needed rest, but he hadn't seen his brother for a considerable amount of time, and waking up by dropping a bombshell on him wasn't really the greatest of plans.

It took quite a bit of time to wake up Sherlock. He was so out of it, but John was terrified to raise his voice in case Sherlock thought it was Sir. John shook his shoulder gently and whispered in his ear, "Sherlock, wake up. C'mon Sherlock, wake up, it's only me," Sherlock woke suddenly with a gasp and he gripped onto John's arm for support. "You're alright Sherlock, you're alright, I've got you." the consulting detective was breathing in the air with enormous gulps as if he had been under water for too long.

"Sir! No- no, g-gonna get in trouble, gonna get in s-so much trouble," Sherlock tried to get down from the bed, forgetting that both of his ankles were broken. He screamed in pain when his feet touched the floor. John pulled him gently back onto the bed.

"It's ok Sherlock, it's ok. I've got you, you're alright,"

"N-no, g-g-gonna get in t-trouble," Sherlock was fighting against John's grip, trying to get away from the doctor.

"Sherlock, Sherlock look at me," it was hard to ignore the comfortingly steady voice. Sherlock's eyes locked onto John's, "Why are you going to get in trouble?" John asked calmly. Reason and logic were always Sherlock's friends in his time of need.

"N-not allowed, not allowed- not allowed," Sherlock muttered frantically to himself, his grey eyes darting around the room as if expecting Sir to jump out of thin air.

"Not allowed to do what?"

"Sleep. Can't sleep. And you. H-he doesn't like you," 'He'll like me less when I find him,' John thought menacingly to himself.

"It's alright Sherlock. You're with me now, he can't hurt you anymore," Sherlocks' pale, shaking fingers played with a stray curls.

"I-I can't get in trouble J-John, I can't. You won't tell him will you?" Sherlock turned to John and grabbed his jacket collar, bringing their faced closer together. "Y-you can't tell him John, you c-c-can't! Don't tell him I've been bad, please don't tell me I've been bad!"

John's gentle hands held Sherlock's face, "Sherlock. You haven't been bad, alright. You have done nothing wrong, do you understand me?"

"But-"

"No Sherlock. You've been good and you will not get punished. And even if you had done something wrong, I would never, not in a million years tell him alright?" the consulting detective released a breath.

"Promise?" John sighed and smiled, releasing Sherlock's face.

"I promise," he sighed and hugged John's chest. Still unacostummed to the Sherlock's desperate need for human contact, John paused for a second, before wrapping his arms around the thin frame of his friend. He placed a kiss upon the black curls and Sherlock pressed his face further into John's chest. They stayed there for a few moments before Sherlock pulled away from him, smiling. John smiled back, unable to ignore the swell of happiness that came from their embrace.

"I'm sorry I woke you up Sherlock, but there's something I need to tell you," John took one of the pale hands within two of his own, "Sherlock... Mycroft's going to be coming soon." Sherlock stared at him like he had never seen him before.

"R-really?" John smiled and nodded. He stared at John for a few moments, trying to take in the news that at last, he could see his brother. His face broke into a huge smile and he let out a disbelieving laugh. "I'm gonna see him. I'm going to see my brother."

There was a small cough for the doorway and John looked up. He saw Doctor Tennant beckoning a finger for him to come. "Sherlock, I need to talk to your doctor for a minute, alright?" he could see the fear shoot across his face and he said quickly, "But I'll just be right outside the door, alright," Swallowing, Sherlock nodded bravely. Smiling, John patted his arm and got off the bed and walked out of the room. Doctor Tennant waited patiently at the door for him.

"Mr Watson-"

"Please call me John,"

The doctor smiled, "Aright then, John. I have the rape kit results back."

"And?"

"... He was raped John, I'm sorry."

John shook his head and swallowed hard, "It seemed likely..."

"But it doesn't make it easier," Doctor Tennant said apologetically, "He hasn't caught any STD or Is which is the only realy positive I can find. After being tortured for so long, it's lucky his captor used a condom," John held up hand to stop him. The doctor turned round to see who John was staring at. Mycroft stood, staring with hollow eyes at the doctor. He had heard everything. To just hear that your brother had been raped and tortured for two years, and not even told to your face, is a shock and horror almost too painful to bear. It had been so long since John had seen Mycroft, though he didn't look much different. Only the pain in his eyes had been the one thing to change.

"Where's Sherlock?" he rasped.

"And you are?"

"I'm his brother. Now tell me where is," his voice was low, but the angry menace in it was there.

"Mycroft," John said slowly, "I think you need to calm down before-"

"Where is he?" he roared at him, his eyes wild and mad, "Where the hell is my brother?" It was shocking and almost scary to see Mycroft like this. Normally he was cool and collected, always the pinicale of sophistication. But now, he was raging with fury and pain. John swallowed and jerked his head towards the door. Anger still pulsing through him, he stormed past John and stomped into the room. He nearly fell over at the sight of his brother; his abnormally pale skin, the scars, the burns...

The two brothers stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, trying to take in the immensity of the moment. Two years. Two long years of no childish feud, no constant annoying and teasing, no arch nemisis. And those two long years made Mycroft do the most un-Mycrofty thing to do. He grathered his brother in his arms and held him tight to his chest. There was an incoherent noise from Sherlock and John sw two pale arms wrap themselves around Mycroft's back

John walked away from the touching scene, not wanting to ruin such a perfect moment. It was only when he turned the corner that his knees gave way. It was almost like he didn't have time to have emotions, instantly needed to be strong for Sherlock from the moment he saw him in that bed. But now all of his feelings had hit him full force in his chest.

He leant against the wall, covering his mouth with a shakily hand. Raped. Tortured. His best friend had been raped and tortured for two years and he didn't stop it. Guilt, fury and grief flooded his chest as he began to sob, huge tears welling in his eyes. He just sat there and cried, his whole body shaking. Images of his friends tortured body flashed before his eyes like old reels of film. He knew that no matter how weak he was now, Sherlock was weaker. But crying uncontrollably into his hands, he simply couldn't see how he ever look after his friend.


	6. My Apologies For All The Lost Times

**A/m - **I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I can't believe it's taken me this long! And apologies for what I think is a shitty ending, but oh well. If anyones actually still reading this story, I want to thank you for waiting so long and for all of the reviews. I really hope you enjoy. Oh yes, it has come to my attention that in the last chapter, I made the disastorous mistake of feeding Sherlock red meat and such (which many of you brought to my attention XDD) so when I can, I will change that.

**Disclaimers - **I obviously don't own Sherlock.

**Warnings - **WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to. If you're a bit twisted like me, don't worry. There'll be some scary shit happening in later chapters.

**Positives - S**herlock whumpage! :D Brotherly love! 8D

* * *

Sherlock could barely remember the last time he and his brother had hugged like this, well, when they had hugged at all! He must have been very little, very, _very _little to allow himself to be held like this. From the age of about six and upwards, he didn't like people to hug him. He saw it as being patronized, not as a sign of comfort.

Yet here he was, cligning onto him like he had never done. And Mycroft was clinging onto him too. Mycroft didn't cling. But then again, neither did Sherlock They were being such oxymorons today. The consulting detective's chest was hurting a bit from being sqeezed so tightly. Sherlock's face was buried in his brother's shoulder, so the question he asked next came out muffled.

"Are you alright?"

Mycroft pulled back and looked at his brother in (what could only be called) shock. How could he ask such a question, after all that had happened to him, after amounts of times he had been raped and tortured and abused, how could he give a damn about anyone else's well being? But he did. He was genuinely concerened for his brother.

Sherlock looked at him a little fearfully, "D-did I do something wrong?"

Mycroft sighed his expression softened, "No. No you didn't Sherlock," he pulled his little brother to him and held the painfully thin man to his chest. "You shouldn't worry about me Sherlock."

"But I do. Y-you are my brother, after all."

Mycroft smiled a little, "That is true. But you're my _little _brother, so I should worry about you more."

Sherlock managed a tiny smile, "Are you alright though?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm alright." Mycroft said, a hand finding hi's way through the curls.

"You're lying," Sherlock murmered, "You always tense up a little when you lie."

Mycroft couldn't stop a chuckle. In a moment, it was like he had the old Sherlock in the room with him, "Yes, I do,don't I?" Sherlock nodded into his chest.

After a few moments, Sherlock asked, "When are you going?"

Mycroft looked down, surprised, "What makes you think I'm going anywhere?"

"You always go," Sherlock said inocently, "You have to work."

"No, I don't," Mycroft said, looking down at him, "You come first."

"But you work for the goverment... Several goverments," Mycroft chuckled again.

"Yes, and you are more important than all of them."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock mumbled, his face turning slightly downcast.

"Yes you are. You're more important than all of them put together." Sherlock's lips twitched. They remained like that for some time, neither one of them saying much. After all, there wasn't much to say. Sherlock had forgotten how to use small talk and Mycroft saw no need for any.

"Mycroft?"

"Hm?"

"Can I go to sleep?"

Mycroft frowned, "Of course. Why wouldn't you be able to?"

"I-I... I'm not allowed," Sherlock mumbled, "I'll get in trouble."

Mycroft's frown deepend, "With who?"

"With Sir," Sherlock mumbled, shuffling a little closer to Mycroft.

"Who's Sir?" Mycroft asked. Sherlcok tensed.

"He's..." Sherlock shook his head, "He's... I don't wanna talk about him," Mycroft wanted to press Sherlock for more information, but clearly he wasn't ready. So he just nodded his head in agreement. "I missed you," Sherlock mumbled. "I was worried about you."

"I was worried about you," Mycroft said, rubbing his back. It was disturbing how clearly he could feel the bones in his back so well defined under his hand, the knots in his spine, the rigid curve of his ribs. His brother was always thin, but never was he skelotal.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be Sherlock. You don't need to be," Sherlock nodded his head, exhaustion stopping him from protesting.

"Am I going home soon?" Sherlock mumbled, "Mrs Hudson never likes me being late."

Mycrofts lips twitched at this. Sherlock was late. He was two years late. "Yes, you'll soon be home." Mycroft's phone vibrated in his pocket but he ignored it.

"You have to go, don't you?" Sherlock asked sadly.

Mycroft sighed, "No, I don't."

"Yes you do," Sherlock mumbled, "You always have to go. But it's alright. Your works important."

"_You _are more important," Mycroft persisted, as did his phone which vibrated furiously in his pocket.

"No, I'm not," Sherlock said, "You have to go Mycroft, but can you find John before you do?"

Mycroft bit his lip, wishing that he could just stay with his brother and sod any work he had to do, sod all the stupid goverments he was working for. But as usual Sherlock was right. He had to go. He sighed and pressed a kiss into the unruly curls. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he whispered, "I promise Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, fighting back his tears, "i know you will, Mycroft."

...

The cold water splash against John's tear stained skin. He ran his hands over his face and looked into the mirror, staring into his own red eyes. Sherlock would know he had been crying. Even after all this time, there was nothing he could hide from him. But surely that showed hope? It showed he was still there. He hadn't been broken down til there was nothing left of him. He was still in there... Somewhere.

John jumped as Mycroft opened the door. John nodded to him in acknowledgment, "How's Sherlock?"

Mycroft nodded, "In truth, I thought he'd be alot worse. My brother... He seems to have an inner strength." John nodded in agreement, "I'm glad he didn't take that from him, whoever _he _is." They remained in silence for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," John said finally after a few moments.

Mycroft sighed and nodded, "Yes. Me too."


	7. The World Spins A Different Way

**A/N - **Okay, it has been a while. A long while. And I am sorry it's taken so long, honestly I am, and I will try not to do it again, but I have exams and I am just SO SORRY! DD: But thank you to all of those who have waited patiently for this chapter and have given me such wonderful reviews! 3 Thank you and I am sorry (By the way , oh my god, the new series is so amazing!) I hope you all enjoy! I'm sorry it's so short, but I had to get it to you!

**Disclaimers - **I obviously don't own Sherlock.

**Warnings - **WILL contain violence, abuse and rape. I'll tell you when it gets nasty in which chapters so you can look away if you need to. If you're a bit twisted like me, don't worry. There'll be some scary shit happening in later chapters.

**Positives - **A new chapter?

* * *

John knew he looked a mess. No amount of water in his face could hide his red eyes, or wash away the cracked tear tracks on his cheeks. And besides, even if he didn't look so terrible. there would be no doubt that Sherlock would be able to pick up on it anyway. Maybe some of his tears splashed onto his shoes, or the way he was so tense would give it away. Even after all this time, he still marvelled at the way his friend's mind worked.

John waited outside of Sherlock's room, trying not to listen in on the quiet, but heartfelt goodbye the two Holmes brothers were sharing. After a few minutes he saw Mycroft walk out of his room and walk down the corridor, his shoulders tense. He didn't look back. John took it as his cue to walk in and he did, sliding the door behind him.

Sherlock was rubbing at his cheeks with his palms, red eyes staring out at the view of London town out of his window, "I missed it, John," he whispered, "I missed London. I... It's stupid," he shook his head and turned away from the city

"What?" John asked gently, sitting down at the edge of the bed, "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at his hands, before glancing up at John, "I thought it would have changed with me gone," he shook his head, new tears springing into his eyes, "But it hasn't. Nothing's changed. And I don't know whether that makes things worse or better."

John didn't know what to say. He took Sherlock's slim hand and held them between his own. He looked down at the scarred pale skin, thinking of how it used to be covered in dirt and chemical burns from his experiments and adventures. But other marks painted it now, reds and blues of bruises replaced the yellows and greens of acid, the marks more sinister than any cut from one of his escapades.

"Maybe," John murmured, still looking down at Sherlock's hand, a thumb gently caressing the frayed skin, "The city was just waiting for you. Leaving everything as it was before you left so that when you came back... It would be like you had never left," John paused for a moment, before smiling and shaking his head, "Now that is stupid."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock whispered. He stared at John, before sniffing and apologizing, followed by a gentle reminder to not be sorry, for he had nothing to be sorry for. After a few minutes, Sherlock stated, "Mycroft left."

John nodded. He had clearly done some good to his brother. He seemed more... Coherent. More stable, as though he was still coming out of the awful cellar, bit by bit. But his brother had helped him out enormously, in a way that John might not possibly understand. "Yes, his work is very important... But, he does think very highly of you, you know?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched, "Don't be so silly, John. Nobody thinks highly of me." Sir's deprecating words bounced around in Sherlock's skull and he shook his head, "Not any more."

It was as though John could hear Sir's voice (deep and menacing was how he imagined it) through his friend's mouth. He still couldn't believe it, that his friend had turned into Sir's puppet, the man who could never be fooled by anyone.

"He will find me again, John," Sherlock whispered, "He'll find me and he'll take me away from you."

"No," John shook his head, squeezing his hand, "No, I won't let that happen."

"You can't stop him. No one can. I couldn't," with his free hand, he brushed away a few stray tears that had found themselves on his pale cheeks.

"You were alone," John said softly, "You're not now. And you won't ever be again, Sherlock, I promise you. He'll have to get through me, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson before he can get to you, and believe me we're a force not to be reckoned with." Sherlock looked up at John, tears shining in his eyes. But they were full of gratitude, as was the smile gracing his face. "We are Sherlock's army," John said, brushing another curl from Sherlock's face, "And we all swear that we will let nothing will happen to you."

...

It took a long time for Sherlock's body to heal. The two fingers of his left hand had to be reset, which John was grateful for, thankful that he no longer had to look at the crooked and deformed shape of his fingers deformed into claws. It was his weight that was of the main causes for concern. It was disturbing just how much he had lost and it took him a long time to get back on to solids, first being fed through a tube, and then on to baby-food like substances. Sleep was another issue, not only because he was so used to it being controlled by Sir, but because of the welts and scars on his backs. For the first few days, Sherlock was always either too scared or in too much pain to sleep. And he outright refused any painkillers. That was the one act of defiance he never apologized for.

But he and John soon worked out a system of how could sleep. John would sleep beside Sherlock, the upper half of his friends body propped against his own and both friends would sleep quite happily like this. It took Sherlock a lot of convincing to get him to actually nod off, but John managed to get the job done and soon he was physically making rapid improvements. Though his ankles was something yet to be seen. It was difficult for the consulting detective to do anything apart and both feet itched and ached like mad.

John would help pass the time by asking Sherlock to read the people who went past their room. It was possible that John loved these moments more than Sherlock did. It was as though seeing a glimpse of the old Sherlock, like a ray of sun flashing by before hidden by clouds again.

Sherlock had not yet spoken about the past two years. Most of John's time was spent trying to distract him form the terrible fear of Sir. Because if John wasn't there and talking to him or holding his hand or doing something, it sometimes felt to Sherlock that he was losing his mind with fear. But even without Sherlock's input on the matter, it wasn't difficult to guess as to what had happened.

So Doctor Tennant suggested that they start up a routine for him. Nothing big, but just have a daily routine, repeating small activities every day, to bring a little normality back into his life. And so, every morning, Lestrade would come in with rolls of newspapers under his arms and read with Sherlock. Sometimes, Lestrade could only stay for a minute or two, other times whole mornings were spent with newspapers strew around his room. But he always came, as promised, and they would read for a time in comfortable silence whilst John snoozed gently next to Sherlock, catching up on lost sleep.

Mrs Hudson would soon join after, fussing over Sherlock, plumping his pillows, straightening his sheets and checking whether the staff were good to him and so on. She would stay as late as she was allowed, until Sherlock and John insisted that she went home. She couldn't possibly sleep in the hospital, not with that hip of hers. So she would leave at around six in the evening.

Sherlock's last visitor was Mycroft. The one time that John could be relieved of his Sherlock duties and he usually left them by themselves, though many times John had been asked to stay if Sherlock was in a particularly bad state. Mycroft had changed greatly since Sherlock's disappearance. He had lost a lot of weight and he had buried himself into his work, making rather difficult for him to crawl his way out of it again. But as the days passed, he managed to get more hours off and soon, the nights were spent in Sherlock's room.

Though, many years ago, John had once told Sherlock that the world didn't revolve around him, for the next few days and even weeks, the entire world did so. And everyone was more than happy to do so.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Thank you for all of your votes :) the new chapter is up now.**


	9. The Wolf in a Suit

**A/N- **Hello dear readers! Sorry, again, for the lateness, but I've had to compwith with doing this, five other stories and my A levels. And, I know it's a short chapter, quality not quantity! ...Right? And I'm sorry for all of you who didn't want Moriaty in the story, but to be honset, their lives are so integrated that I don't think Moriaty couldn't have had part in it, if that makes sense. Also, thank you for your votes and advice, and apologies for the fake chapter and making you all think it was the real one! I hope you enjoy! And sorrydid I don't do Moriaty justice, he's a very brilliant and complicated character.

**Liz Harper- **Thank you for your review!

**Goth- **Thank you for your review!

**Demi- **Thank you or understanding my difficulties with school wand and for your wonderful review :)

**Laytonloverdg- **Thank you for your wonderful review :)

**Sr- **Thank you for your review! ^^

**Disclaimers- **Do I look like Moffat and Gattis?

**Warnings- **Will contain violence and rape. Not in this chapter, but it's deffinitely hinted.

**Positives- **Moriaty?

"Gone?"

"I don't know-"

"You let. Him. Go?"

"I didn't let him_ go_-"

"I don't care what you did, HE'S GONE!"

Silence.

Sigh.

"I can get him back-"

"Oh, and do you think they'll let you, hm? Do you think John Watson will let you just stroll in and take his _pre_cious little Sherlock- oh no. No, no, no, no. You won't even get _close _to Sherlock again, _Sir_. Your participation in this little game of mine is terminated."

"You don't understand," a growling voice paused the polished shoes for a moment, "He's mine."

Moriaty grinned. His high pitched laugh, hollow and cold, echoed around the room, "Oh, and you think you can stop me?" Instantly his face fell and he stepped towards the huge, hulking figure in front of him, his icy eyes burning out of his face. "You've seen what I do to him. You _know_what I can do. I can pull you apart piece by piece and feed you your own fingers." Silence followed as the smaller man stared up at the taller.

"He's scared of you," Moriaty admitted, "But he is _terrified _of me. You make him call you Sir. He can't even utter my name," A finger flashed out of nowhere, making Sir jump, "One chance. I think it will be interesting to see how this goes," he turned on his heel and began to walk way, "Oh, and if you don't get him back," he sung loftily as he walked away, "You'll be choking on your fingernails."

...

"Sherlock?" Sherlock jumped at the sound of John's voice. He turned to him and the doctor smiled a little, "Are you alright?" John asked. He watched as Sherlock nodded a little. It was so odd, yet strangely comforting to see Sherlock back in his old attire. Though they were slightly too big for him, his old suit and coat were on him, along with the scarf tied around his neck. It was refreshing to see Sherlock in something other than a hospital gown and in the familiar interior of a London cab, things almost seemed normal. As if those two lonely years had not been so lonely.

"Erm... Yes," Sherlock answered carefully, choosing his words, "I think so. I'm going home after all," he paused for a moment, looking down at his hands before asking, "Did... Did anyone else-"

"Nobody else has lived there."

"Have you changed-"

"It's exactly the way you left it."

Sherlock looked up, "After two years?" he let out a small sigh, "That's going to be a lot of dusting to do."

John chuckled, "Well, I think Mrs Hudson will have that sorted."

Sherlock smiled, "Well, remember, she's our landlady-"

"Not our housekeeper," John and Sherlock said in unison. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. It had been three and a half weeks since John had since Sherlock in hospital. John had certainly seen some remarkable improvements in Sherlock, considering all that he had been through. The nightmares were still rather horrific and they couldn't talk about or even mention Sir. Nor could Sherlock be left by himself. At least, not for very long. He would grow panicked and start to shake, as though waiting for somebody to snatch him out of the shadows. But his patience never wore thin with him, John made sure of that. Besides, there was no other place he'd rather be than at Sherlock's side, grateful for the constant reminder that he was there next to him, safe, if not sound.

Despite the nightmares, he was quickly gaining weight and his fingers and ankles were soon mended. But down in that cellar, exercise hadn't been on Sherlock's set list of activities and so was still very weak. Because of this, though his ankles had mended, he still had to have a wheel chair til they got home, where John could help him build up his strength.

"Just here, thanks," John paid the driver and clambered out of the taxi, offering a hand to Sherlock, who took it gladly. He leant heavily against the taxi as John got out his wheel chair from the boot, tucked safely away under his arm. He slammed the taxi door shut and wrapped another arm around Sherlock's waist, staggering just a bit as he took on the brunt of Sherlock's weight.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, frowning at this.

"Yep, I'm fine," he smiled at Sherlock, "Let's go home, eh?" Sherlock nodded silently. Both he and John began to make their way slowly to the door of number 221b Baker Street, "You know, it's okay if you're nervous, Sherlock. It's a big deal."

Sherlock shook his head, "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I shouldn't be nervous, I should be fine. I'm just going home."

"After two years," John reminded him gently, "That's really big, Sherlock."

The detective glanced at his friend, "Are you sure? That it's... Alright?"

John nodded and smiled, "Yes, I'm sure."

After a few steps, Sherlock stopped, looked around nervously and whispered in John's ear, "Are you sure he's not here, John?"

"Yes, I'm sure Sherlock," John murmured back, "It's perfectly safe here, I promise."

Sherlock stayed like that for a moment, before resuming to his slow walking. "Okay."

John did the same, resisting the urge to look around for a Sir shaped figure lurking round the corner. As if he would ever let that happen again. There was no chance Sir was getting near his friend, not in a hundred years. Sherlock lent against the wall as John rummaged in his pockets for his keys, sighing when he came up empty. Taking Sherlock by the waist again, he pounded on the door, feeling the slight flinches running through his friend's body as he did so.

They waited a few minutes, before there came a click and Mrs Hudson was opening the door, smiling as she looked at the men in front of her, "Oh Sherlock," she said fondly, pulling the slim man into a hug. John smiled, reminded happily of the first time that he had been introduced to 221b Baker Street. He never did ask Mrs Hudson about her husband. His smile grew as he too was pulled into her embrace.

"I've just popped the kettle on," she said, as John helped Sherlock into the house, "I'll get you boys some tea," she said, as she bustled into her own flat.

Sherlock remained silent, looking around him as he stood in the corridor. John didn't say anything, just watched Sherlock carefully as he took a few steps on his own, his head turning, as if to take in every aspect of his home. His legs were trembling with the effort, but he stood resolute, looking around the dark hall, up the stairs at the beach-tree wall paper and the rooms beyond. He began to take short, staggering steps towards the stairs, before his arm was lifted onto a pair of shoulders. He looked in surprise to find John at his side, hand on his wrist, arm round his waist.

John looked at him, giving him a small smile, "Together, eh, Sherlock?"

Slowly, he nodded, "Yes," he whispered, "Together."

...

_There was no solution. This was it. It was the end, he couldn't deny it. Deadlines, at least, Moriaty's deadlines, had a reason for the word 'dead' in it. And it would've all the more worse for him. He knew so many ways to make them scream, make their backs arch as their bodies shuddered. He loved to watch their limbs flail, the short pauses inbetween for begs, gasps and sobs. But soon, the roles would be reversed. Moriaty had a flare for the dramatic, he adored to draw things out; especially when it came to death. Sometimes he had wondered whether he was the one who killed them, whether it was he who fulfilled those terrible threats. It didn't matter now, though he would soon find out._

_He didn't have an office. Well, not one that Sir knew of anyway. He usually had a different assortment of places, but today, he was going for the classic 'psycho in a warehouse'. It made Sir almost angry to think that in this setup, he was the victim. Or at least soon would be. He waited, the feelings of impatience growing as Moriaty continued to elude him._

_Then he heard the sound of polished shoes on concrete, and Moriaty walked into view. The psycho in the warehouse; the wolf in a suit. He stood and stared at Sir, both faces remaining passive. It was Moriaty who spoke first,"Your pockets," he said, "Look surprisingly empty. As you always payin cash, I'm assuming you don't have it, do you?" Sir didn't speak, "DO YOU!"_

_"No," Sir blurted, jumping at Moriaty's outburst._

_Moriaty sighed, "Oh Sir. I gave you a chance. A chance_. _I don't. Give. Chances."_

_The silence fell around them, thick and strong. Sir said nothing. What was there to say? Pleading made him pathetic, bargaining made him stupid and reasoning made him dead._

_He hadn't noticed the manilla enveloped tucked underneath his arm. He drew it out, his face remaining serious. Sir glanced at, flinching as it was slapped onto his palm. He glanced up at Moriaty, eyes smouldering. He opened it slowly and drew out a picture of a serious looking man, expression pensive as he climbed out of the London cab. His dark curls bounced on his high cheek bones, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He glanced at Moriaty. The corners of his mouth were twitching slightly as he too stared at the photo._

_"I don't_ _understand," Sir said, glancing at the photo and back to Moriaty, "I haven't paid."_

_"This is your payment," Moriaty said, smiling and singing, "I'm afraid you're going to have to learn how to share, Sir." Sir continued to stare at him, confused. His smile grew. He leaned forward and hissed,_ "Break. Him._ Break him into tiny, little pieces and crush them. I want to see you split Sherlock Holmes open and ravish him. And I know that once you have a taste, you will never stop hunting him."_


	10. The Ponderings of a Beast

**A/N- **Hello my dears! My exams are over! Yay, oh god, those exams just killed me. I was revising three hours a day, I simply had no time to do anything. Also, I have my laptop back, which means it's far easier to write my stories than on my phone. I just want to thank you all for your patience, kind reviews and your favorites and alerts. I was so overwhelmed the magnitude of them all, just... Thank you, really. And as I have no homework or proper work to do now and, I actually know what to do for the next chapter, it won't take half as long as it did. I'm unsure about the second half of this chapter, so do tell me what you think. I hope you enjoy ^^

**Disclaimers- **It's all Gattis and Moffat's

**SH- **Thank you for your review ^^ And yes, I've sorted that out now.

**Anon- **I will, thank you :3

**Warnings- **Torture and disturbed thinking.

**Positives- **Snuggling :3

* * *

John couldn't quite understand why they couldn't just share his bed. It would certainly make things easier, well, easier than having to clamber out of bed of his bed in the middle of the night and lumber over to Sherlock's'. Maybe it was an attempt at independence (after all, two years of captivity must make you yearn for some kind of control over your life, especially if you're Sherlock Holmes) or perhaps his friends' last shred of pride blockading the easy path to comfort.

Whatever the reason, the doctor supposed grudgingly, tossing the covers aside, it was a half victory. This, set aside from the no pain killers rule in the hospital, was one of Sherlock's' first real conscious decision. Well, one that wasn't followed by nervous hand wringing, inner cheek chewing and about a dozen other new nervous habits Sherlock had picked up. Really, John should be pleased, proud even, that Sherlock had come so far so quickly. Two years truly can be a long time to be held captive, to see no one but your captor and know nothing but pain and fear, and quite frankly, John saw it as a miracle that Sherlock hadn't been reduced to nothing but a terrified and fractured mess, broken beyond repair.

But the wails from the other side of the door were painful reminder of just how far Sherlock had to go. The annoyance that usually came with such regular nightly interruptions, were, in a reality, a barrier, a flimsy defence against the waves of turmoil that were to come crashing down if he really let himself listen to those cries. And as he grew nearer, his insides began to constrict, the familiar pain that always came with the the nightmares seeping inside him.

John ran, as he always did, hurrying to Sherlock's' room and bursting in, making, what he always felt on recollection, a dramatic entrance. No matter. It still wasn't enough to break the feverish dreams that wracked Sherlock's' mind. Climbing onto the bed, John pulled his friends' convulsing body into his arms. It was though he was violently ill, his body shaking, brow shining with a cold sweat. He pulled him onto his lap, his chin resting atop the mop of damp curls.

Sherlock was still half entangled in the bed covers, his head on Johns' chest, the rest of his body crumpled on his lap. One arm covered his face, the other loosely hanging around Johns' waist. Johns' fingers curled around his body, shifting them both to a more comfortable position leaning against the head board. He may as well get comfortable; after all, he probably wasn't going to do much moving once the nightmare had passed. Which, by the sound of it, wasn't going to be any time soon.

_"S-sir... N-not again please... No, please Sir, don't, don't do it, Sir, don't- AAH!"_

_A grin leered out of the dark, the large fingers pinching the small dial, so tight his fingers were turning white. "But Sherlock," he purred, "Don't you like it?"_

_Sherlock looked up at him through the blinding haze of tears. His back was still arched in pain, despite the wires taped to him had lost their electricity. Every rib was countable against the white taught skin, blemished by burns and scars. "N-no, Sir," he whimpered, tears rolling down the side of his face, "I-it hurts."_

_Sir smiled, cupping a hand round his ear in mock deafness, "What was that, Sherlock? You want me to turn up the voltage?"_

_"No!" Sherlock all but screamed, lurching forward, bucking against his restraints, "No, Sir, d-don't, please!_

_Sir fingered the dial lovingly, a smirk curling on his lips as he watch Sherlock twist and writhe. He paused for a moment, watching the scene in glee, before shrugging with false nonchalance and saying, "Alright, Sherlock, "If that's what you want." Sir sighed, the smirk morphing into a disgusting smile. He slowly twisted the dial, the clicks formidably loud, loud enough that even Sherlock, who was edging nearer and nearer towards hysteria, could hear ever notch the volts were going up. He watch, body trembling as his fingers meandered downwards towards the button, large pads running over its surface, as they began to press down-_

Sherlock jolted back into reality with a start. He froze, a second of confusion striking him, as it always did after a dream. One second, where the contents of his nightmares remained blank, suspended, before it all came crashing down again. Sobs shook his body, a hand clamped over his mouth in horror as tears came cascading down his face. Sherlock became aware of the arms wrapped around him and instantly began to fight him, half of his mind still dregged in his own dark terrors.

The arms tightened and he was pulled against something solid, fingers gripping him tightly, as if scared to let him go.

"Sherlock."

A ragged gasp ripped through Sherlock's' throat and slowly, he looked and saw John, wearing that same, sad smile, the one he always wore when Sherlock was like this. But the pain on his friends face wasn't enough for Sherlock to hold it together. He tried, he wanted to, but he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't hold it together, not for John, not for anyone, not even for himself. His body fell once again against Johns', curling up in his lap as choked sobs shook his body.

The strong arms pulled him in tighter, his cheek pressed against Johns' chest and the dull sound of the doctors' heart thudding steadily against his ear, accompanied by the soft reassurances from John, the strong and gentle voice anchoring him in reality, a constant reminder forever letting him know where he was, that that cellar was miles away and he was safe, tucked away in the heart of London in the arms of his friend. He hoped John would never stop talking, wondering how it was possible to still hear his murmurs whilst sobbing so loudly. A hand gripped the front Johns' pyjama shirt, the other wrapped tightly around his back. He wished it were just a nightmare. He wished bitterly that he had that consolation, but he knew better than that and John did too, far too knowledgeable in the happenings of that cellar to give such a weak form of comfort. It had been real. All of it had been, every shock in his nightmares had assaulted his skin and it was enough to make his stomach churn with terror.

He wrapped an arm around his chest, hand stuffed in his armpit, as if to try and protect the tender flesh there. he could still feel the cold hard metal, hear his cries as Sir clamped his nipples, the fat wires trailing down his stomach. And the smell- oh god the smell. That stench burning flesh that attacked his senses, obliterating everything else, even the screams, until all that was left was his own blistering skin. His stomach rolled in protest and Sherlock hunched forward, his arm now winding itself around his midsection. John did likewise, his own body curling around Sherlock's, palms placed on sweaty, shaking hands.

"I-I was burning, John," Sherlock whimpered between heaves, "I-I could smell... me b-burning."

John stiffened for a second, his own belly protesting at the thought of his friend burning alive. But he soon gazed composure, a steady hand placed between Sherlock's' pointy shoulder blades, rubbing small circles there. This wasn't a typical nightmare. By now Sherlock would be asleep, shaken, yes, but exhausted enough that he could spend the rest of the night in peace. It must have been a real horror for Sherlock to be in the state he was now. John tried to think of something to say, wracked his brain for any kind of spoken comfort he could give his friend. But nothing came forth. What could he say to in light of such sickening knowledge? For now, he opted to say nothing, still clinging to Sherlock in a grim-faced silence.

Slowly, Sherlock uncoiled, his back straightening as both he and John leant back into their former positions. The younger leant against his friend, body trembling with exhaustion and god knows what else. John drew the wrought sheets around them both, frowning at the slight dampness that met his skin. He reclined into the pillows, nearly horizontal, but not so much so that Sherlock couldn't lean on him still.

The soothing thud of Johns' heart returned to the detective once more and as he carded his fingers through the black curls, Sherlock's' cries were reduced hiccupping whimpers and, after a time, even they were silenced. All that was left were the soft sighs from John and the sound of London rushing by their window. John could feel his eyelids begin to droop, his head nodding before something startled him awake.

He closed his eyes again, groaning internally at what he had to do. After a few minutes, he looked down at Sherlock, sighing as he instinctively pulled him closer, his hands finding themselves once again in his unruly curls. He really did need to visit a barber, though the thought of taking his friend to a place where both sharp objects and social conduct were required wasn't particularly appealing. He'd probably just ask Mrs Hudson to do it, if Sherlock had a flashback, then at least he and Mrs Hudson could deal with it.

Carefully, slowly, John managed to extract himself from Sherlock's' gangly limbs, creeping out of the bed and out of the room, leaving the door open and going into the living room. He sat down at the desk, switching on a lamp and glancing back at the sight of Sherlock's body sprawled in his bed, in good view for John from where he was standing. And, god forbid Sherlock should ever wake up, he would always be able to see John, dispelling the panic that would surely ensue if he felt the ever present presence of John disappearing from his side.

He pulled on the drawer, pulling out his laptop and lose sheets. He dumped them unceremoniously on the desk, glancing once more at Sherlock, relieved to see his face was still locked peaceful expression. Good. That gave him roughly half an hour before he had to return to bed. Sherlock's' nightmares weren't kept at bay for long.

Sighing, John flipped open his laptop, absentmindedly switching it on before turning his attentions to the papers clutched in his hand, the contents of which were filled with credentials, recommendations and psychological jargon, most of which went over his head. Therapy. Sherlock Holmes was going to need therapy. The very thought of Sherlock going to therapy was laughable, well; at least it would have been two years ago. But now, John was actually contacting therapists and psychologists, trying to gather as much research as he could to try and help the consulting detective.

The thing was though, despite all that had happened, Sherlock still didn't like people. He just didn't get along with them. It wasn't his fault, he just didn't understand them, at least, not in a way that was considered 'normal'. And when they couldn't see things the way he did, it irritated him. Everyone must seem so frustratingly slow to him. So John couldn't help but wonder whether therapy would actually help him. There weren't many in the world who could understand Sherlock and the doctor couldn't help but think that whoever his therapist was, they would have to understand Sherlock to help him. And that was not an easy thing to do.

Sherlock didn't show his irritation with such openness as he once did, but in the hospital, John couldn't help but notice that some of the nurses annoyed Sherlock. It wasn't obvious, but just by looking at the constant clenching and unclenching of his hands, the slight knitting of his brow was enough to indicate to John that the chatty nurses we're grating on Sherlock's' nerves.

Therapists were really like everyone else and just like everyone else, they had flaws. There were good ones and bad ones and John simply couldn't afford to let Sherlock have one of the bad ones.

And then there was the issue of work. John had taken some time off, but he couldn't very well take leave forever. This wasn't maternity leave; they weren't going to grant him unlimited time off with Sherlock. He would probably have to quit his job, the thought of it nearly creating an audible groan. He knew Mrs Hudson would never kick them out, but it was an unpleasant thought of having no stable income.

He would have to talk to Mycroft, though keeping him in the loop was hard, especially since time alone was difficult to find. He knew he couldn't talk to Mycroft tonight, something about elections coming up, though on pointing out that the British elections were years away, the government official merely smiled and John didn't bother trying to figure out what election Sherlock's brother was getting involved in this time. It was Mycroft who had managed to get him the credentials of all of these therapists, nearly all of which were the best in the country. Still, John couldn't stamp out that last spark of doubt, despite knowing that Sherlock needed therapy. Physically, John could manage, it wasn't as though he was dealing with a neuromuscular injury, simply a case of malnutrition (though the thought of it still made his head swirl) and extreme lack of exercise. Plus, he was now in the middle of contacting a dietician Doctor Tennant had put him up with to help his friend gain weight. But still, John was no replacement for a therapist. He could only fix Sherlock physically and help where he could. Sherlock needed somebody impartial to help him, someone who wasn't emotionally involved. He probably would too, after all of those nightmares and flashbacks.

John stared down at his shaking hands, before combing them through his hair once again. It felt as though everything was crashing down on him at once. It was just so much to take in. He stared at Sherlock, the screams rushing round his head. He spent so much time trying not to think about what actually happened, about the lost two years and the fact that Sherlock's' captor was still out there, that was when in the wee hours of the morning, the only time he could get work done, the thoughts rose up in his head like a terrible swarm. It was odd how the evidence of what had happened was continually staring him in the face, yet he still managed to not actually think about what happened to his friend in that cellar. He thought that if he did, he would surely go mad. Because the thought of him, that Sir made his blood burn like nothing else could. He loathed him for the ruination of Sherlock. John had never hated before. Not true hate that made it feels as though poison was coursing through you when you thought of that person. But he thought he did now. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stave the tears and stomach lurches that always came with thought of that man destroying his friend. This wasn't how it should be. It wasn't. Sherlock should be running around London and he should be doing the same or they should be arguing over heads in the fridge or how the sleuth never got the shopping. He should be writing up their fantastic adventures and Sherlock should be making them. Sherlock should be flinching from comfort, but instead, John was rocking him to sleep every night. Mycroft and Sherlock should be bickering like squabbling children, but Mycroft showed no facade on seeing his younger brother and held onto him whenever he could, terrified to let him go. John prayed that the consulting detective didn't know that they were all clinging to him as much as he was clinging to them.

A small whimper interrupted his train of thoughts and after quickly emailing the dietician, he closed his laptop, put away the papers, flicked off the light and, as fast as he could, brought his weary, aching body back to bed. He slid under the covers, bringing the skinny thing next to him back to his chest in an embrace. The muffled cries ceased almost instantly and soon, Sherlock's' warm breath tickling the cook of Johns' neck. The doctor closed his eyes, fingers twisting and twirling Sherlock's' curls again.

"You'll be alright, Sherlock," John whispered, squeezing his eyes tighter the tears burning behind his lids, "You will be. You're stronger than you know," he let out a shuddering sigh and allowed himself to cling to Sherlock's' sleeping form, "You'll make it, I promise."

...

Sir wasn't sure he was able to remember his real name. That is, the one given to him, not the one he made for himself. Indeed, it had been so long since anybody had called him by it that it seemed to have retreated from his memory through lack of use. It wasn't that it mattered; he couldn't see any chance of him or anyone else using it again. Though he couldn't deny, the way Moriarty rolled the word of his tongue, his name filled to the brim with contempt, almost made him reconsider keeping it, for that man could twist and deform words to such an extent that he made him feel foolish for choosing such a soubriquet. But there was always another that made him feel as though his name held worth, some trepidation, and that was Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, he hadn't at first. The detective spat out the name with such amount of contempt that Sir hadn't thought possible. But that was in the early days, a time when Sherlock kept a cold mask clamped firmly on his face and even in times of greatest pain, it was rare to see it slip. But Sir had taken care of that. He ripped it off and feasted on the soft flesh behind it. A smirk curled his lips. He had been so very different from the others, so incredibly versatile. It had taken him the good part of a year to finally make him snap.

But when he _did_... God, what a beautiful moment that was, when that man finally broke. And how _long_ it took. Never had they taken so long to break, nor had they been so impertinent beforehand. Sir had never forgotten the shock and fury the first time he had stumbled across one of his deductions. The first time Sherlock had ever laid eyes on him was all he had needed to spin his web of inferences. He acted as though abduction was, for him, a daily occurrence, though Moriarty had pointed out that Sherlock Holmes was not one to shy away from danger.

Indeed, the young man seemed to show no fear at all, though he knew perfectly well what he was. Sir was an entirely different kind of beast compared to the type of scum Sherlock was used to, yet even with the knowledge of future torture and pain, the man didn't back down. Sir wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. Moriarty's extensive file had warned him of such effect.

At times, seldom as they were, he wondered whether there was something more, something past the cellar and Sherlock. When watching John and Sherlock from afar (for he always did his own research), conversing and sharing smiles with one another, the rare thought had struck him suddenly. Could there be something else? Something other than watching the pain unfurl in their faces, the terror as he took their lives and observing with interest the same old strategies used to try to make him stop. And the answer was always no. There was nothing, nothing other than the pleasure of seeing others pain and the eternal blackness of his own being. It was all he could have, the pain and the pleasure, and nothing else. And, as Sherlock had spat at him after one very trying day, it was all that he would.


End file.
